


Heliacal Hours

by kurgaya



Series: Tremulous [14]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Banter, Community: hc_bingo, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Protectiveness, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ukitake is still smiling. “You have an odd idea for a honeymoon, my friends,” he says.</p><p>“You have no idea,” Ichigo deadpans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heliacal Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my _hostages, archaic medical treatment, time travel gone wrong,_ and _deals with demons_ prompts for the hurt/comfort bingo on livejournal.
> 
> This story can also be found on FF.net, livejournal, and tumblr.

Shrouded in robes dyed black with conformity and adorned with the First Division chrysanthemum – truth and innocence _indeed_ – the guards stand loyal at their posts, unfaltering in their command. Rigid, the silent men and women of the First Division never waver, and they never once glance into the cell. Juvenile zanpakuto wait at their sides, tense beneath the rhythmic drumming of fingertips and the flexing of muscles, tempted to strike. Their shift changes twice a day – the morning guard are rowdy with a sleep interrupted, and the evening guard are restless with a night of boredom, eager to fulfil. The rotation is carried out beyond the prisoners’ eyes and ears to ensure that the division’s secrecy is maintained, but Ichigo knows more about the functioning of the Gotei Thirteen than Captain-Commander Yamamoto would like to admit.

From between the impenetrable grey-green bars of rust, Ichigo watches. The guards do not humour the silence of his thoughts with the boisterousness of their own, but then they cower away from his glare, and he dares any who risk a peek to put him in his place. They are yet to open their mouths in challenge, and in turn, Ichigo is yet to open his. Beyond the initial roar of his objections upon awakening surrounded by nameless, moral-less shinigami of the Second and tossed in a prison with a verdict little more than a frightened squeal at _something different_ , he has said nothing. His voice is lost to the terrors of a Soul Society too shaken from a betrayal to think logically. They will not hear his denials or explanations until they are ready to accept his existence – and considering the order for the guards not to even _look_ in his direction, this may take a while.

A door opens at the far end of the room. A reiatsu-code locks and bolts it shut, but Ichigo doesn’t need to hear it _clunk_ to know that. The First Division is his partner’s home-away-from-home (although, which way around that goes _is_ questionable), and he could map out the building’s entire blueprints if asked – or not asked, because he does get a kick from obliterating smug smiles. Nobody here is going to require it of him though, and even if they do, Ichigo isn’t going to humour them. Spilling Captain-Commander Yamamoto’s secrets will give him a one-way ticket to the Sōkyoku – assuming, that is, Ichigo has woken up in a time where the great flaming chicken is still standing.

He doesn’t think so. The Seireitei is as tense as it was when Aizen’s betrayal first became known, so Ichigo can hazard a guess as to his current whereabouts.

(The question is – time travel or dimension travel?)

(He never thought he’d be asking himself that).

The door slams with the guard change, prompting embarrassed laughter from the outside. Wintry hair strewn across his fevered pallor, Tōshirō grumbles a protest at the ruckus through his fiery dreams. On his side, the trembling weakness of his body is curled away from the prison bars. His face presses into Ichigo’s lap, and his mouth wheezes fire through mutters of exhausted cognisance. He had been verging on an illness – likely nothing more than a common cold from the stress of the morning – before the Arrancar’s strange power had taken effect. Now it seems that whatever the snarky, cackling Hollow had been capable of has fuelled Tōshirō’s sickness, and he has yet to stir into this familiar world.

Ichigo knows his spouse will wake. An Arrancar is far from enough to inflict a mortal wound onto the Captain-Commander. _Especially_ an Arrancar that said Captain-Commander hadn’t even been combatting. _Ichigo_ had made the mistake on the battlefield – Tokyo, not Soul Society, and not even Karakura – and now they are both paying the price. Perhaps this is the result of marrying a man with an unyielding loyalty and unquestioning faith in his family and friends.

Together, or not at all.

Heaving a sigh, Ichigo brushes the sticky wisps of Tōshirō’s fringe from his eyes. Being so obvious in his affections is asking for trouble – if Tōshirō were awake, he would insist that they separate in the pretence of comrades. Their intimate relationship could be used against them if their captors were to gain insight into it. Ichigo can understand the logic. A hostage situation is the last thing he needs right now (he _would_ do anything to get Tōshirō back) but he cannot help himself. With the struggle Ichigo had displayed upon their capture, the Soul Society is probably aware that there is something unprofessional between them. Yet even if they aren’t, he isn’t prepared to watch Tōshirō suffer without doing anything to offer comfort.

Although he wishes for his partner’s good health, Ichigo is glad that Tōshirō is here with him. The mighty temper of the glacial dragon is relentless, but the fuse to awaken it is longer than Ichigo’s own. Characterised by mellow greens and neutral whites, Tōshirō is the steadfast foundations of their renowned fellowship – their marriage and their expertise upon the field. He cools Ichigo’s hot-headedness and demands composure with little more than his presence – serenity rolled into sharp angles, it is one of the many reasons for his success as a Captain-Commander.

Ichigo _is_ biased. But he wouldn’t be a very good husband if he weren’t.

He laughs shortly, thinking back to the day he had proposed. One of the guards jumps out of her skin and glances over her shoulder with deer-like eyes; cold neutrality replacing his smile, Ichigo glares a whimper from the woman as she whirls away from him. Pleased that his scowl is still considered legendary in whatever whacked-up alternate universe or timeline he’s landed himself in, the Fifth Division captain buries himself further into the gentle folds of his kimono. He would much rather be wearing the many layers of his uniform, but unfortunately he hadn’t been given much of a choice when battling the Arrancar. Still, there’s every chance that turning up in this alternate Soul Society donning the Fifth Division insignia would have led to his immediate execution, so perhaps being torn from the human world when they had is a good thing.

That is a rather inconclusive _perhaps_. Ichigo would have liked to be able to spend more than ten minutes in the newly wed bliss of his honeymoon – if their stroll around the shrine where the ceremony had taken place can even count as a honeymoon, that is. For God’s sake, he’s still wearing his _wedding kimono_!

The Shiba family are never going to let him live this down.

 _Married in a true Kurosaki fashion_ , they’ll laugh, rolling about as Ichigo recounts how the _only_ goddamn Hollow to interrupt their _entire wedding_ is one with the capabilities of hurling them across _time and space_!

And the best part is, their family and friends probably won’t even look for them for about a week, putting down their sudden disappearance as the _honeymoon-highs_ and _leaving them to it_.

At least their engagement had passed without a hitch. It would have been difficult to have any problems with it since they had just… fallen into a proposal. For hundreds of years their relationship has spanned, but marriage had never really occurred to them. Ichigo had considered himself married in everything but name anyway – they live together, eat together, work together, and sleep together. He saw no real reason to encourage the hassle of marriage, and so when the desire had finally blossomed in the back of his mind, it had merely fallen from his tongue – instantaneously, offhandedly, while making a paper crane out of the financial report that Tōshirō had given him to read.

“Marriage?” the Captain-Commander had said, glancing up from his desk just in time to receive a sharp poke from the paper crane thrown across the room. The delicate creation had then crumpled and landed with a watery _plop_ in the teapot. Raising an eyebrow in subtle amusement, Tōshirō had fished the poor bird out and given it a shake. “I suppose saying ‘no’ after all these years would be something of a scandal. Rangiku might never forgive me.”

“I would,” Ichigo had replied, laughing at the dejected paper crane as his partner tried to dry it. “Should I ask again in a million years?”

Tōshirō’s scowl when he unravelled the bird and recognised the incomplete financial report had been the most memorable aspect of the exchange. With a sigh, he had said, “Only if we cannot find a jeweller who is able to satisfy both of our preferences.”

And that had been that.

Ichigo smiles to himself and lays a hand across his husband’s forehead again, trying to recall if the blistering heat has increased or not. Tōshirō is muttering now, as if attempting to scold his body into healing, but with the walls of sekkiseki gradually draining their reiryoku around them, it’s a futile goal. Plus, Captain-Commander Yamamoto himself designed these prisons, and Ichigo knows that reiatsu is unreachable within the barriers of the cell. Healing kido is out of the question, and even if a medic were to be dispatched to assist them, there is little they can do unless Tōshirō is removed from confinement.

A scowl deepens on Ichigo’s expression, seeming to darken the shadow that his shaggy golden hair casts across his face. Maybe Soul Society _are_ using Tōshirō as a hostage, he realises. They could quite easily bargain medical assistance for information, and Ichigo would willingly comply. He doesn’t intend to hide his identity anyway – all he wants is to get out of this ridiculous situation and return home safely with his partner. It’s not as if he wants anything from the Gotei Thirteen bar being treated respectfully and a ticket home, but nobody had given him the chance to explain this before he had been locked in jail.

Ichigo had forgotten how mistrusting Soul Society was in the aftermath of Aizen’s betrayal. For him, it’s been some hundreds of years since then. Clearly, this Gotei Thirteen is still reeling from the pain.

They have demons to deal with, and big ones.

Now Ichigo’s stuck in the middle of it all – _again_.

God his life is a mess.

Grumbling to himself, the captain glances between the guards situated at opposite ends of the room. Neither turn to address the glower on his face, but one does twitch as if tempted to smack his frown away with the flat edge of his zanpakuto. Ignoring the jumpy man, Ichigo resigns himself to the silence of the night’s watch and tries to get comfortable. There’s no way that any of the guards will leave their posts to fetch someone from the Fourth if Ichigo asks – blackmails, threatens, begs, whatever – and the likelihood of a healer visiting at such a late hour is slim. He’ll have to wait until the morning to see if the Gotei Thirteen are going to continue dismissing his existence. Admittedly, the Captain-Commander _does_ have more important things to worry about, but Ichigo hopes the old man will get his act together _before_ Tōshirō’s health deteriorates.

The Gotei Thirteen will _not_ want to witness the fury of Captain Ichigo Kurosaki’s protectiveness.

Resolved to try and find a way to speak to someone with authority in the coming dawn, Ichigo lets his head fall back against the wall. Restless, Tōshirō slumbers life away, and Ichigo draws his spouse closer and gathers the beautiful folds of his kimono around the weakening man. Where the delicate cloth of Tōshirō’s attire had once been as enthralling as a dawn of snow, its simplicity unsullied and endlessly bright, dust and dirt now splatter it with ruin. The trailing ends are dyed black and grey, the spirited silhouettes of red-crowned cranes dancing about the robe, but misuse has crumpled the pleats and tainted the fabric. Washing the kimono to its former polished white is going to be a nightmare, but then maintaining such traditional clothing always is. Ichigo is going to have a bigger problem with his – although the colours complement his husband’s, a solid black defining the body of the robe, and the identical cranes flourishing in their true snowy magnificence, dashes of blood stain the kimono from the graze to his shoulder. The wound has ceased bleeding some time ago, but Ichigo can feel the scarlet weight soaking the colour of his clothing. He’d like to have a healer check the injury anyway, but since blood loss isn’t an immediate problem, Ichigo is more concerned about the wreckage of his kimono.

He isn’t one to be attached to objects or clothes, but he wore this at his wedding and he’s allowed to get sentimental about it.

Rukia will murder him for ruining it. The matching kimonos are a gift from the Kuchiki House, and Ichigo has never dared to ask how much they had cost to make. They’re beautiful, yes, and definitely expensive, but he imagines providing warmth in a cold prison cell is not their primary function. Yet Ichigo has made do with worse before, so he gives the guards once last wary glance before settling down for a long night of broken sleep.

It is not the sunlight steaming in that wakes Ichigo the next morning. Earth and cement buries the cellblock beneath the outskirts of the First Division, and thus there are no windows to watch the passing time. Having fallen on his side at some point during the night, Ichigo peers across the wooden floorboards to spy the kido barrier locking them in fizzling a faint, olive green. Without his reiatsu to scour his surroundings, the captain’s mind takes longer than usual to piece together the scene – scurrying footsteps of the guards, the gentle shuffle of somebody approaching in the uniform straw waraji, and a voice, questioning, as a conversation continues about the room.

When an unidentifiable black-robed shinigami bends down and presses his or her fingers against the side of his partner’s unresponsive chin, Ichigo _throws_ himself into motion. There’s a yelp from the boy kneeling beside Tōshirō’s unconscious form, and voices startle from outside the cell. Hands muscular and rigid with tension twist into the back of Ichigo’s kimono and wrench him from his target, but though he is handicapped without his immense reiatsu, Ichigo is not defenceless. Spinning into the intentions of his assailant, he kicks out, knocking the nameless man into a stumble – a shove follows through, and further shouts amplify as metal clicks and slides into the fray. Shadows of people Ichigo may have once met hurry into the tight confinement. Ichigo’s body weight teeters as he swings a kick around into a rushed block – his opponent collapses, and Ichigo is quick to right himself as somebody tries to grab him again. A fist whistles past his shoulder, then a blade, and Ichigo flicks his gaze towards the shine of the metal as it arches high; he steps back, prepares to dodge it, and walks straight into a haori, burning white with power in the corner of his eye.

A hand captures his wrist. A blade appears at his throat, its scarlet-tipped hilt rarely drawn for battle in Ichigo’s time.

“That’s quite enough,” chimes a gentle voice, the shinigami’s tone laced with poison. The extravagance of Retsu Unohana’s braid presses against Ichigo’s back, and the locks feel like knives carving into his skin. “You fought off that sedative remarkably quickly. I apologise for underestimating you.”

Adrenaline pounds in Ichigo’s ears. Around him, the beaten healers grumble as they pick themselves up, looking relieved at the presence of their captain. The boy still seated beside Tōshirō has a familiar cut of chin-length black hair, Ichigo notes then, and as the healer lifts his massive blue eyes to Unohana, the young face of Hanatarō Yamada rises into view.

“I’m sorry captain!” Hanatarō squeaks, his pre-adolescent voice ringing in Ichigo’s ears. “His reiryoku must have burned through it really fast – I can recalculate the dosage!”

Ichigo clenches his teeth, and the skin of his neck flinches beneath the blade.

“Thank you, but there is no need,” replies the Fourth Division captain. Her grip slackens on Ichigo’s wrist, as if daring him to move. Minazuki’s sharp edge remains in place, a gentle reminder of Unohana’s sinister ways. “I am sure our spirited guest will comply.”

A rebellious _will I?_ rips through Ichigo’s thoughts even though he plans not to cause any disturbance.

Hanatarō looks unsure, his eyes flicking between his captain and her captor. Yet only a moment passes before he is nodding and muttering to himself as he returns his attention to Tōshirō’s prone form. His trust in his captain is infinite.

That, or Ichigo isn’t the only one to be surrounded by faces he recognises – familiar, but not _quite_ the same.

He watches as the young healer alternates between rummaging through his pack and emitting soft noises of thought at Tōshirō’s condition. The Captain-Commander slumbers on unaware, his skin ever paling to complement the shine of his shaggy head of snow. When Hanatarō’s examining touch return to Tōshirō’s pulse, Ichigo matches his spouse’s unconscious flinch – he jerks forward despite the warning metal, and Unohana’s grip strengthens again when he reaches out for the healer.

“I am capable of bringing you back from the brink of death, if need be,” Unohana says, the threat as sweet as the smile of blood that trickles down Ichigo’s neck. “The Captain-Commander wishes for you to remain alive until you are called for questioning, so I would ask you to please stay still.”

Ichigo scowls but does as the captain asks. Unohana is not to be taken lightly, and he knows that her words are far more than an empty threat. Of all of the captains in the current Soul Society, she is one of the few that Ichigo doesn’t want to cross. Yet, moral reason can persuade her; though her heart pumps the blood of a demon, it also beats compassion and care. Her motherly nature is more than a ruse, and she will not stand idle while wrongdoings prosecute the innocent.

Unohana is healer. Then she is a solider.

“Ah, Captain Unohana,” Hanatarō squeaks from the floor. “I have finished my assessment. The patient shows symptoms of a low fever – shivering, sweating – and his body temperature reads thirty-eight point five degrees Celsius. It is difficult to document all of his symptoms while he is sleeping, but his reiryoku is exhausted. Yet, it is clear that the patient has a vast amount – I – I’d say lieutenant-class at least, Captain. But without a sample, I can’t conclude anything more about his capabilities. But – I – um – I could offer a guess, Captain…?”

Ichigo almost laughs at _lieutenant-class_. It wouldn’t be appropriate given the circumstances, and neither of the Fourth Division officers would understand the joke. Unohana’s sense of humour is buried somewhere unreachable anyway, and Hanatarō has always been more likely to apologise for making people laugh than join in with their amusement. No doubt the boy considers the captains’ humour to be something worth fearing, and Ichigo frankly doesn’t blame him.

“Thank you, Yamada-san, that won’t be necessary,” Unohana continues, soothing her officer’s worries. “I appreciate that I have limited your abilities by asking you to conduct a diagnosis within the kido boundaries. Unfortunately, these patients may not be removed from this cell for the time being.”

Having been on the receiving end of Unohana’s vexation many times before, Ichigo recognises the subtlety of her irritation. He appreciates it too, for it provides further evidence that she may be an ally in worming their way out of this prison and into a position more likely to return them home.

As Hanatarō glows with praise, Unohana turns to the other healers waiting for instructions and adds, “Hamasaki-san, please prepare some bandages while Yamada-san examines our other patient. Ueno-san, there is a bag of medicine beside you. Please bring it here.”

The shinigami rush to complete their tasks. Engrossed in watching their movements about the prison, Ichigo doesn’t comprehend that _our other patient_ refers to him until Hanatarō is hovering before him, medical pack grasped in one hand and his gentle smile contradicting the wariness in his gaze. Feeling like he has just been sandwiched between a rock and a hard place with Unohana’s fury behind him and Hanatarō’s distrust before him, Ichigo forces his body to relax. Despite the blade at his neck, the Fourth Division have already revealed that they don’t mean any harm. That Unohana has only restrained him with the implication of her power suggests that she believes the same about him – reiryoku or not, Ichigo is perfectly capable of causing a _fuss_ if he wishes. He doesn’t though, and in return for his good graces, Unohana hasn’t tied him up or knocked him out as he knows any other captain would.

Still, Minazuki’s edge is a problem, but pushing back his pride will solve it easily enough.

“I won’t attack your officer if you let me go,” Ichigo says, trying hard not to express how annoyed he is. Grumbling at Unohana won’t get him onto her _people I will treat_ list.

“Are you giving me your word?” she replies, sounding amused.

Ichigo shrugs. That Minazuki doesn’t automatically carve open his throat at the movement is a promising sign. “Depends how much it’s worth to you.”

The elderly healer hums and releases his wrist, letting it drop back to his side in a show of trust. “ _That_ depends on how highly you value the wellbeing of your companion.”

“His _wellbeing_ isn’t up for debate,” Ichigo hisses, unable to stop himself at the captain’s threat.

Unohana laughs, apparently pleased by his audacity. She sheathes her zanpakuto and steps away from him, baring the sharp edges of the insignia on the back of her haori as she collects the medicine bag. Hanatarō swiftly takes her place, mumbling about _bandages_ and _reiatsu_ , but Ichigo ignores him, his eyes following the captain as she kneels beside the slumbering Captain-Commander. She searches through the bag, occasionally pausing to contemplate something, but not once does she look back at Ichigo, nor does she address the unease glances her officers frequent the unrestrained prisoner with.

Ichigo submits to Hanatarō’s examination. It doesn’t take long, and by the end of it Unohana appears to be satisfied with her selection of bottles, while Hanatarō seems even more unsettled than he had been before. It’s likely his resemblance to this time’s (world’s?) Ichigo Kurosaki, and since Ichigo has no idea how he’s going to explain his way out of that one, he hopes the healer doesn’t ask.

(All he had wanted was to get married in peace. Ichigo supposes this is what he gets for being an idiot).

Across the tiny cell, Unohana opens one of the bottles. “This decoction will help reduce the severity of your fever – I cannot treat you using kaidō, but kampo will suffice for now. Please drink it all, even if it isn’t to your taste.”

For a moment, Ichigo thinks she is talking to _him_ , but then Unohana moves enough to reveal that Tōshirō has awoken – scarcely aware he may be, he is still reluctant to abide to the healer’s instructions. Living in a time where Retsu Unohana has long since been the chief healer of the Fourth Division, Tōshirō is impassive even though his lips are cracked with thirst and his body shudders with a sickness that she could effortlessly treat.

“What are you giving him?” Ichigo calls, asserting his spouse’s concerns. Tōshirō’s eyes lift at the sound of his voice – his brows dip slowly, as if scrunching in pain, but tension eases from his shoulders when he recognises the pattern of cranes along the edge of his husband’s kimono.

 _It’s me_ , Ichigo wants to say. _I don’t know what mess I’ve gotten us into this time, but it’s definitely me_.

“This is Kakkonto. Its main ingredient is the kakkon herb. It will ease your nausea and headache enough for your body to rest a while.” The captain encourages Tōshirō to sit up. She seems not to notice the apprehensive slant to his shoulders as he does, nor does she mind the flat look that Tōshirō assess her with – an impassable blizzard, his eyes defend his thoughts as this reality tumbles them about in confusion. Rather, she hands over the drink and turns to give further instructions to her officers, and in the midst of the bustle as the healing team startle to attention, Tōshirō raises an eyebrow up at his husband.

Ichigo shrugs his wounded shoulder, drawing his spouse’s gaze to the bandages wrapped there. It’s not much of an assurance, but there is little else Ichigo can give without uttering a single word. Nonplussed by this, Tōshirō shrugs the same shoulder back and shakes his head, his expression neutral. He sips the concoction and uses the motion to lift his eyes to the daunting white of Unohana’s haori, before dropping his gaze as he swallows.

 _So it is Unohana_ , Ichigo thinks, relieved to have his suspicion confirmed. The Fourth Division officers move around him, gathering up their equipment. Their captain is the centrepiece to their work – standing with her back to Ichigo, she seems undisturbed at displaying such vulnerability. Unohana excels at judging character, and the captive Fifth Division captain can only ponder the implications of her behaviour.

(Does she… _know_ …?)

Before he can search his partner’s expression for guidance, a blur of white steps into Ichigo’s peripheral vision. Heartstrings twisting as Jūshirō Ukitake’s beaming smile greets the mass of shinigami loitering about the prison, Ichigo almost misses the shadow behind the sickly captain. Mind automatically jumping to the only one of Ukitake’s lieutenants that he ever knew ( _Rukia?_ ), Ichigo is unable to prevent a scowl when the captain appears alone – even Sentaro and Kiyone are nowhere to be seen. His scowl deepens further when the Fourth Division officers greet the newcomer as if there is nothing out of the ordinary, and from the corner Tōshirō coughs, snapping Ichigo’s attention back to the question being asked.

“I thought Captain-Commander Yamamoto had wished for them to be separated?” Ukitake muses, blinking his childishly innocent eyes at his friend.

The lower ranked Fourth Division officers flutter as if they’re being lectured. The Thirteenth Division captain hastily reassures them, and his laughter abruptly reminds Ichigo of the depth to Ukitake’s façade.

(The Ichigo in this timeline must be due his substitute badge soon).

“He had,” Unohana replies, passing over the medicine bag to one of the guards as she steps out of the cell. The last of the team scamper after her, and in the second where the kido fizzles and parts for their exit, the urge to escape _hurtles_ through every inch of Ichigo’s body.

Tōshirō coughs again, this time his spluttering a true reflection of his fever.

Ichigo sits.

“I advised against it – for medical reasons, of course,” Unohana says, returning her friend’s smile. Together, they look like a pair of swans; their eyes are as predatory as their feathers are beautiful and white. “I believed my patients would benefit from the proximity.”

Ukitake looks surprised for a second, but then a delighted comprehension laughs its way onto his face as he glances between the two prisoners. “I see,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “My, this is unfortunate, isn’t it?”

Uncertain if that comment is being directed at him or not, Ichigo remains silent. His relationship with the Thirteenth Division’s captain had been slow to develop – Ichigo had always been closer to Shunsui – but over years of hardships and countless mishaps involving a drunken Eighth Division captain, Ukitake had settled into the role of an uncle. With how much time Ichigo spent in the Eighth Division, Ukitake was an expected addition to the family, but one that Ichigo prized all of the same.

 _This_ Ukitake is an anomaly that he has never encountered – his first meeting with the elderly captain had been on friendly, _oh-wow-you-look-like-my-ex-lieutenant-thanks-for-saving-our-arses_ terms. And they’re definitely not in that situation now, that’s for sure.

The two captains share a smile so _familiar_ that Ichigo has to tear his eyes away. Seeing them both is opening up a wound he has long closed, and it’s all Ichigo can do to hope that he won’t start gushing all over the floor in a wrecked puddle of blood. Tōshirō is safer to stare at – cracked lips, flushed cheeks, and wheezing gasps of exhaustion and all. Concern replacing the raw angst uncurling in his chest, Ichigo shuffles closer to his spouse and lays a gentle touch against his forehead, pleased to feel that his skin isn’t blistering as dangerously as before.

“I will return tomorrow to check up on him,” says Unohana, and Ichigo glances up because she can only be talking to him. “Until then, I have left further remedies with the guards with instructions to administer them when he wakes.”

The _please be hospitable_ is left unsaid. Ginger hair sweeps forward in a bow anyway, recognising the order with a minuscule tilt of the head.

Ukitake is still smiling when Ichigo sweeps his gaze from the healer, but it does nothing to ease his nerves. “You have an odd idea for a honeymoon, my friends,” says the white haired captain, sharing a look with Unohana. The healer gives a little tut as she orders her team away, and Ukitake shoots her a particularly boyish _well what did you expect?_ expression.

“You have no idea,” Ichigo deadpans.

The surrealism only escalates come the next morning. After being repeatedly dosed up on Unohana’s (apparently disgusting) kampo, Tōshirō’s lucidity has improved enough to warrant an inspection of the cell. Ichigo tells him everything he can remember about their untimely arrival – which isn’t much beyond _it’s not my fault this time, honest; you can blame that stupid Arrancar and Suì-Fēng’s trigger-fast paranoia_. Tōshirō doesn’t place any blame, but Ichigo still feels guilty as his husband works through the facts, coughing all the while. They need to return home before their involvement gets out of hand – Ichigo has read enough science-fiction novels to know what the consequences of altering the timeline can be. In that sense, being stuck in a prison cell is a good thing. On the other hand, they’re far less likely to solve this predicament. What they _need_ is access into the Twelfth Division’s database (and, preferably, Kisuke Urahara’s _head_ ), but currently they have little more than hungry stomachs and distrustful stares.

“It could be worse,” Ichigo muses, recounting the number of cracks on the ceiling.

“Don’t jinx it,” Tōshirō replies automatically as he swishes the _nth_ cup of kampo around, his scowl amplified by his displeasure of the taste. “The luck of the devil is a double-edged sword.”

“At least this’ll be a honeymoon to never forget,” Ichigo grumbles, laying his head on his knees. He presses his cheek into his kimono and wrinkles his nose at the dust. “God, this has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

Tōshirō gives him a flat look. “You mean _apart_ from the obvious…?” He coughs to finish the sentence without the guards overhearing.

Ichigo laughs at his husband’s incredulity. Rampaging through a military organisation with five people and a cat hadn’t been the brightest of ideas. “Yeah, apart from that.”

“Well,” says Tōshirō, grimacing as he swallows the last of the medicine. He puts the cup down beside him, and one of the guards leans over to see if he has drunk the entire thing. Ichigo doesn’t blame them – Unohana’s wrath is definitely to be avoided.

“I could list a few things,” says the Captain-Commander, his tone entirely serious. “I’d probably begin at Florence –”

“Oh _god_ –”

“Oh, remember that one, do you?” Tōshirō asks, smiling through the lingering flush of scarlet still clinging to his complexion. The sickly rose is better than the ghostly paleness that had been painted across his features just the day before, but it’s still the only thing that prevents Ichigo from reaching over and smothering the stupid smirk from his face.

“Of course I do. Renji wouldn’t look at me without laughing for _weeks_.” He glowers at Tōshirō’s smile, recalling how his friends had refused to cease rubbing his mortification in his face. Retrospectively, Ichigo has to agree that the disaster in Italy was funny, but only if he looks back on it and forgets how absolutely _smashed_ he had been. “I thought we had agreed to never talk about Florence again?”

“Hmm,” says Tōshirō, seeming to concede to the plea as he wraps his kimono around himself in an effort to stay warm. “I suppose we did.”

A moment of silence passes. One of the guards reflects Ichigo’s sceptical expression.

“Fine,” grumbles the Fifth Division captain. He may be complaining, but he doesn’t really mind the teasing, not when the alternative is to wallow in thoughts of never being able to return home. In addition, Ichigo would much rather have his spouse laughing at him than hacking up a pair of lungs in his lap. “Go on.  _You can say it_.”

“ _Spingere_ ,” Tōshirō whispers, only for his laughter to be cut off as his throat tightens and splutters around a cough. Mucus splatters into his hand and air heaves into his chest with startled gasps.

 _Serves you right_ , Ichigo thinks with a smirk, and though his spouse’s words have flooded him with (a frankly well deserved) embarrassment, he wiggles over to rub the weakened hunch of Tōshirō’s back. The shinigami with the medicine bag looks frantic for a second, his hands clenching and unclenching around the case, but then the door along the hallway opens with a deafening _crack_ , and any thoughts of assisting are forgotten.

Yamamoto’s cane _click-clacks_ against the floorboards.

With a rattling wheeze, Tōshirō tries to push his husband away. Prepared for such a motion, Ichigo refuses to budge. Despite the icy scowl this earns, he wraps himself around the feverish Captain-Commander and shifts onto his knees, just in case the impending encounter requires that he move with haste. He hopes it won’t, but he imagines it will when the silent footfalls of Suì-Fēng follow the elder’s stroll into the prison. The duo stop opposite the cell – Yamamoto in front with his hands folded over the twisted end of his hidden blade, and Suì-Fēng just a pace behind him, half of her diamond expression shadowed by the Captain-Commander’s imposing stature. She’s tiny next to him, a pitviper waiting to strike. The Suì-Fēng that Ichigo knows is less dangerous – but only slightly. This Suì-Fēng hasn’t had much of a chance to talk to Yoruichi yet, it seems.

“Stand, boy,” Yamamoto barks.

“Why?” Ichigo snaps back, lifting his chin in automatic defiance. It has been hundreds of years since he had laid eyes on Yamamoto, and though he has matured into a captain, an uncle, and a husband, refusing to roll over is still an unthinking reaction to the elder’s piercing glare. “You need me to get you a chair, old man?”

Suì-Fēng’s eyebrows shoot up into her fringe and then plummet down again as her face twists with fury. Ichigo feels victorious for about a second – then Yamamoto’s eyes darken, and his wrinkled, powerful hands flex on the end of his staff; curled in a ball of misery and burning a hole through his partner’s leg with an appalled expression, Tōshirō struggles against a cough. The weight of his recklessness hits Ichigo like Komamura’s bankai obliterating a town. Guilty but determined not to show it, the golden haired shinigami stares unwaveringly at the senior Captain-Commander, and beside the silent man, Suì-Fēng hisses;

“Show some respect or I will not refrain from reminding you that you are a _prisoner_! You have been found trespassing on protected military grounds with no form of identification – we have the right to investigate your _intentions_.”

Ichigo has no desire to dispute that fact. He just hopes they will _ask_ for information before torturing it out of him.

(They’ll target Tōshirō, he knows, but Ichigo will be damned before he lets that happen).

“Then how can I help you?” he asks, forcing his tone to remain polite. He still hasn’t followed Yamamoto’s order to stand and neither of the captains repeat the demand, and Ichigo counts that as a victory despite himself.

In fact, Yamamoto is staring at him with an odd expression. Now that Ichigo has spoken, the Captain-Commander’s eyes seem calmer – his extensive eyebrows have lowered thoughtfully, but the sharp edges to his demeanour appear to have faded. In that moment, he seems more like the man he had almost become – a sensei and a grandfather – than an old man of rigid traditions, hunched under the weight of a war.

 _What_ , Ichigo almost asks, but the _clack_ of Yamamoto’s staff against the floor interjects.

“Come,” says the bearded Captain-Commander, watching Ichigo closely. “Bring your… companion with you.”

Woops, that’s definitely an equivocation. _The cat’s out of the bag now_ , Ichigo thinks, not that there was really a bag to begin with. Deliberating the implications of Yamamoto’s wording and noting that Suì-Fēng is yet to drag them out of the cell, Ichigo shares a look with his husband. Convincing the Gotei Thirteen that they’re from the future is one thing, but finding a way home is another. They have no guarantee that any of the captains will believe them anyway, and having no resources will strand them in this section of the timeline. Yet… as he glances up at Yamamoto, Ichigo cannot help but feel that persuading the Gotei Thirteen of their identities won’t be as difficult as he had previously envisioned.

They are warriors. They have dealt with the darkest of demons, and they have seen things that no mortal mind could ever hope to imagine.

Somehow, time travel isn’t that much of a stretch.

“You up for this?” Ichigo asks his partner, keeping the question vague for their captors’ ears. Tōshirō’s breathing has evened now, and Ichigo is relieved to see that Unohana’s herbal remedies are still working their magic.

Rewarding his husband with a characteristic flat look, Tōshirō looks seconds away from rolling his eyes. “Of course,” he states, shrugging Ichigo’s protective hold away.

Ichigo smiles at the attitude and shuffles back to let his spouse climb to his feet. He doesn't offer a hand, but it is an instinctive action that he has to fight back. Even ill, Tōshirō will not admit weakness in front of an audience - allies or not. That this timeline's Gotei Thirteen aren't really enemies means nothing, and thus it comes as no surprise to Ichigo when his husband adds on a snappy;

“You’re certainly not _carrying_ me.”

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, ignoring Suì-Fēng's glower. Yamamoto doesn't appear to be in any mind to rush them - not that Ichigo would abide by his wishes anyway.

"Yes you would," Tōshirō says. And this time he rolls his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought :)
> 
> The [kimono](http://www2.ctahr.hawaii.edu/costume/artfully%20adorned%202/A-1998-6-9b.jpg) (invert colours for Toshiro).


End file.
